I swallowed hard. Siphons. Human excess and pure shadow, dragon blood and batshit crazy experimentation gone miraculously right or horribly wrong, depending on whom you asked.
Okay, story time.
Once upon a time, a little more than a decade ago, supernatural creatures like witches and vampires and supersonic bunnies with laser eyes made themselves known to the general public en masse. Behold the creepiest things you’ve ever heard of coming to life, working in your office buildings and living on your street, even going to school with your kids, and teaching your kids. People didn’t like that. It scared them, and honestly, it probably should have. The year after the initial “Hey, look, magic!” came all the violence and hate that sequestered those with magical leanings to places like Splendor and Estuary. Subsequently, demonic fires, nymphs calling the agitated forests to demolish entire suburbs, and lots of murder occurred.
Naturally, more people were scared. They demanded more security, something they could use to fight back against all the monsters that ate their bullets for breakfast. So their beloved government endowed them with an exorbitant amount of money to hire a group of insane chemists, genealogists, and molecular biologists. After five years of grotesque monstrosities, they made the siphons—humans that were capable of manipulating magic. Dragging the unholy energy out of warlocks, dryads, and angels, they created primitive, unschooled magic, brittle as obsidian. They lacked the control of a three-year-old, but it was enough to stay the world’s terrified hand. And enough to convince them that we couldn’t totally eradicate all of them if it took our fancy to try.
I almost laughed. Siphons were the monsters’ monsters. They were a nightmare’s nightmare, the shadows in the alley of a pitch-black world. And I was sitting half-naked in front of one, tired and angry, totally exposed. Do I know what a fucking siphon is?
“Yeah,” I answered.
Casey laid his hand on my shoulder, hot with steam, and I flinched.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
Gee, why did that feel like a veiled threat?
“Really.” He squeezed me lightly and softly. Perhaps begging me to believe him.
I looked at him and he tried to smile, but his face refused to let him, his eyes going iron hard with regret and worry as well as something else I couldn’t identify. The cold steel of a man resigned to his fate, I guess, but that didn’t seem to cover it.
Here’s the thing. Siphons weren’t really dangerous. They weren’t supposed to hurt anybody. Their whole purpose was to pretend they had enough magical capability to defeat a magical mob in a fight. Honestly, there wasn’t a whole lot Casey could have done to hurt me, nothing that I couldn’t return tenfold on him. Well, that is, if I were healthy anyway.
Casey swallowed, making a visible effort not to look away. “You’ve …” he laughed. “You’ve seen what I can do with this … ability of mine. It’s kind of pathetic.”
I began to smile. “More than kind of,” I said.
His smile broadened, and he laughed again. “I’m … I’m actually a doctor. If you can believe it. Probably could have fixed this a little better if I had the right tools, but … yeah.” he sighed. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
Something thrilled me when he said my name—my heart seemed to hammer, pleading for him to say it again. “Don’t be,” I said. “I’m just happy you knew how to set it at all.” That was actually a rather disturbing thought—if anybody else had tried, they might have shattered the bone into a million bite-size pieces, or turned my blood into salt. It could have been quite harrowing.
But thanks to Dr. McDreamy, all I had to complain about were the insignificant details of his technique. I admit I was always one to look at the positive side. Yep, I’m a half-full cup, not a half-empty one kind of girl.
Casey smiled at me, softly, his amusement playing tricks with his eyes. “Guess that’s something,” he said. “Can you lift your arm?”
I did, and he squeezed a rag of hot water over the wound. Blood sloughed off into the tub, turning it pink. It burned like hell, but it was a good heat, like the tingle in frozen fingers when you thaw them by a fire.
“Easy,” he whispered, and I realized I was cowering.
“I’m okay,” I said.
We sat in silence as he slowly rinsed all the dirt and ash and broken glitter of bad magic off my skin. I stared at the rippling grey of his reflection in the water, and at the wall, as well as the fogging mirrors. Eventually, I looked at him. I watched him ministering to me, and felt him slowly rubbing all the red stains off me. He only looked up once, and it was at me. Not at my half-bared breasts, or my legs. Just at me. Staring, smiling. There was something impossibly reassuring about that smile. It was small and soft, almost casual, like nothing about this was strange.
“I think,” he said softly, “we’re good.”
I blinked. “Um. Oh. Okay.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Good,” I said, nodding. “I’m … good.”
Casey pulled the plug on the tub and the water started gurgling away. “Can you stand up?”
“Maybe.” I put my arms on either side of the tub and pushed myself up. Or I tried to. My left arm buckled under my weight and I slipped back into the water too hard, nearly slamming my head against the back of it. Casey caught me just in time, sparing my head from falling only inches onto the glass.
“Okay, okay,” he said, easing me back down into the water. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, struggling to breathe. Casey’s arms uncoiled from around me and all three images of him sat on the rim of the tub, their warped faces spinning like a kaleidoscope. Clearly, I wasn’t okay.
“We’ll let the water drain,” he said, “and I’ll carry you. All right?” He put the back of his hand on my forehead. “Just relax.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, barely hearing him, my forehead pulsating. Deep breaths, deep breaths, come on, deep breaths. I forced myself to inhale. For a while, the only sound I could hear was the automatic fan, desperately inhaling the steam. Relax.
After a few minutes, the bathroom was clear, and I started to feel cold.
The last of the water wound down the drain with exaggerated bubbling. Casey looped his arms under me, placing one behind my back, and one under my legs before he lifted me out of the tub.
“It’s okay,” he whispered as he carried me into my bedroom. “I’ve got you.”
I murmured wordlessly into his shirt, drinking in his unique smell—aftershave, dried sweat, dirt, and the faded scorch of Dulcie’s fire. My cheek pressed against his chest, and he held me a little tighter.
Placing me gently on the bed, he whispered, “Wait just a second,” like he was soothing a baby to sleep before he disappeared. When he came back, he had the white bandages and a towel in his hands. My vision swept in and out of focus. It was almost too hard to blink.
“I …” The word came out as little more than a gasp. I took a deep breath and pushed myself up, slowly, agonizingly, into a sitting position.
“Are you okay?” asked Casey, his face strained with worry.
I nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” I swallowed against my writhing stomach. “I’m …”
Casey uncoiled the bandages and started to wrap them around my middle—one hand holding my stomach, pressing his palm firmly against my skin. I sat stock-still as he wound it around me, going up and up and up until my whole torso was swathed in white. A thin, red line formed against the underside of the gauze, but it didn’t spread, a good sign.
“You shouldn’t sleep in wet clothes,” he said. “Okay?”
I nodded numbly. “Okay.”
“I’m going to shower, and then I’ll go out and sleep on the couch, if that’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ll probably have to wash my clothes unless you’ve got some spare clothes in a men’s size large lying around here?” The way he asked the question was cute, but I could tell he was probing, wanting to know if I had a boyfriend.
“N
o, I’m afraid I don’t. Just a woman’s size medium, but I doubt those will fit you.”
He chuckled and I yawned, long and loud, stretching my mouth as wide as the unhinged jaw of a snake. How long had it been since I’d slept? Four days, my beleaguered brain answered, going on five. Go the fuck to sleep. “Mmm-hmm,” I said to myself, dragging my weary eyes up to Casey. “Thank you.” I couldn’t think of anything to add so I just smiled at him.
He smirked and put his hand on my cheek—then seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled away, clearing his throat. “You’re welcome.”
“Hey, could you, um …” Hades, why isn’t my mouth working? “On my dresser … could you, um, grab me some, uh …”
He nodded and went to the dresser I indicated, a curving, black wooden thing with veins of blue painted across it to look like corrupted turquoise. “Which drawer?”
It didn’t even occur to me to be embarrassed. “Top.”
He walked back over to me with panties, bra, and a short, black sleeveless sleeping shift. “Do you think you can …?”
“I’ll be fine,” I answered, taking the articles from him. Weirdly enough, he managed to pick out a matching set. “Thanks. Really. For, um … you know. Saving my life.”
“No problem,” he said. “Now, let’s get some sleep. We can figure this all out in the morning, okay?” he added.
“Okay.” I nodded as he made for the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick, beige carpet. Blue stuck his nose into the room to meet him, whining softly.
“Hey, there’s dog food somewhere in the kitchen. Could you—”
“Sure,” Casey answered, scratching Blue on the head. “Come on, boy, let’s get something to eat, eh? Sleep well,” he said before he shut the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sam
When I awoke next, I was staring at the ceiling with heavy covers draped over me. The light outside my windows had dimmed into the satin-black and silver of twilight. I dragged myself from the bed, my side throbbing like an aching tooth, moving as slowly as I could manage. The room was large, mostly occupied by a queen-sized bed, a black vanity with makeup and hair-care supplies strewn across it, and a chalk-blue wardrobe. A tall window overlooked my backyard, a long stretch of green, ringed by the silhouettes of trees with sharp leaves.
Now was as good a time as any to get up, but my body wasn’t complying with the whole “waking up” thing. My bones creaked and groaned like the boards on an old ship, grinding against each other whenever I moved. “Okay,” I said. “Okay.” Come on, we can do this.
I pushed myself off the bed, warily testing my balance. I didn’t immediately pitch over, which I considered a good sign. The dizziness was gone, along with the headache, and I was reasonably awake. I lifted my shift to look at the bandages, which were soaked through with red, but now in a narrow rectangle rather than a vague, amoebic stain. So, better, but still wanting. However, I would deal with that in a minute.
I dressed as quickly as I could, which, with my body on strike, meant painfully slow. I slid on yoga pants and a long-sleeved, purple shirt, tennis shoes, things that wouldn’t snag.
Things that’ll be easy to run in, I thought. That was a pleasant picture, running from full-metal Dulcie and the other Darkness creatures with a broken rib and whatever the hell else was wrong with me.
But I had to reserve my thoughts about my impending doom, my possessed best friend, and my missing boss for later. Right now, my rib hurt and I was hangry. I went to the kitchen with the full intention of bleeding into a silver bowl to make one of a hundred different concoctions, one that might better repair my bones—noxi idrocal for the pain, theris validranum to speed the mending on the molecular level—but I changed my mind when I smelled cookies. Cookies and a burnt-charcoal haze that smelled suspiciously like fireworks.
Casey, I thought. When I heard someone humming, however, it didn’t sound like him.
I couldn’t think of any explosive agents that might have smelled like melted chocolate, but I was still moving slowly as I rounded the corner into my living room. The lights were on above the counters and oven, and a single lamp illuminated the pastel couches and the dark dining room table. A woman with long, blond hair and shadow-grey eyes sat with a cup of steaming green tea, drinking from one of my numerous mugs while reading something on her phone. White, sleeveless, athletic shirt, stretch-black shorts, and pristine, white tennis shoes. She had a gun at her hip, and a smaller pistol strapped to her ankle, which was casually slung over the arm of her chair.
She looked up as I came in. I stiffened, and she smiled.
“Sam, right?” she asked, standing and pocketing her phone. “I’m Judy.”
“Um,” I started, wondering if thieves nowadays broke in and baked cookies before they took off with your televisions and iPads.
“It’s okay, we’re with Casey.” She extended her hand.
I blinked at her and gave her hand a cautious shake. She had a firm grip. “Judy,” I repeated, my heart pounding. How the hell had she gotten in? “And where is …”
“Bathroom,” she said. At that exact moment, the door to the guest bath opened up and Casey came sauntering out.
“Sam!” he said, beaming when he saw me. “How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” I said. His hair was slick from his recent shower, and he smelled like strawberry shampoo. Oh, and one more thing … he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was only covered by my white towel which he wrapped around his middle. His skin glistened (yes, glistened) with hot water, steam curling off his arms. He smiled at me with shining, white teeth. Prying my eyes away from his chest was almost painful.
“Good, good. Oh, this is Judy,” said Casey. “She’s with us.” Then he headed for my laundry room where he was, presumably, in the middle of washing or drying his clothes.
“Judy and I just met,” I said with a little smile at them both.
She laughed and looked me up and down. “Hi to you, too,” she said, squeezing my arm. We were matched in height, but she was smaller, nothing but muscle stretched tautly over bone.
Which reminded me, I had a mortal wound to take care of.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, my wits finally returning. “I’m sorry, I need to do something in the kitchen.”
“Kent’s a little busy in there,” said Judy. “What do you need?”
“Kent?” I asked.
“Demo guy,” she said absently. “So what do you need?”
“Um …” I tucked my hair behind my ear, feeling a little bad for what I said next. “I need to set a bone.”
Judy snorted. “Yeah, Casey told me about his temporary patch job,” she said, throwing a dubious look in Casey’s direction. He held up his hands and shrugged. “How’s it holding up?”
About as well as a paper airplane in a hurricane, but it hasn’t hit the water yet. I smiled and said, “Not bad, but I think I can do better.” Casey grinned at me from where he was pulling his clothes out of the dryer. I wasn’t sure why, but I liked the image of him in my house, tending to such boring chores.
Judy laughed and walked over to the kitchen.
Casey carried his clothes from the laundry room and walked right up to me, the strawberry smell increasing tenfold. “So, how are you? Really?”
I took a deep breath, feeling fire on my skin, and tasting ash in the back of my throat. My legs started shaking. “I’m … okay. Not really, but I’m … I’m okay.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Casey nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That, uh … sounds about right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be—”
“No, I mean, for all of this. I’m sorry it happened.” He put his hand on my arm.
I sighed. “Thanks,” I said. “I … yeah. Thanks.” I smiled weakly, fervently ignoring the dead witches and burning buildings that were still wedged in my brain. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t you fucking cry!
Casey squeezed my arm, leaning down to look at me. His eyes were soft a
nd calm. “It’s okay,” he said. “I mean … I mean, it’s not okay but … it’ll be okay. We’re gonna figure this out.”
The images swiftly faded and I felt steady again. Inhale, exhale. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay,” he said as he straightened up, smiling. “I don’t know about you, but I am starving. And I think,” he added, heading for the kitchen, “that someone made cookies.”
I followed him before I noticed three more people for the first time.
The first was tall and lean, a burning cigar between strong fingers stained with motor oil and ink. Aged maybe in his forties with brown hair, a tweed jacket, and brown dress shoes that seemed to have been hammered into an off-grey after thousands of hours pounding the pavement. There was a woman sitting at the island in front of him, drinking coffee and staring at nothing. She was Arabian with dark skin, black hair, and wearing a white half-mask to cover savage magical burns. The bright red scars, crimson and black webs of burns caused by all the wrong kinds of divine intervention, were still very visible. Old magic simmered inside her, a muted brightness like beams of sunlight through fog. I could feel the ethereal residue even from here, thick and sour, like stagnant water.
And the third was a short man with shaggy, reddish-brown hair—Kent the demo man, if I had to guess—piddling around the kitchen wearing a plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves and my Kiss Me, I’m Wiccan apron, his hands coated in flour. Every appliance in the room was doing something. My dishes were done, my counters were clean, my hand towels, of all things, had been neatly folded. And the chocolate-and-fireworks smell, warm and divine, was deliciously radiating from the half-open oven.
“Ah!” Kent said when he saw me in the thickest Scottish accent I’d ever heard. “Perfect timin’.” He opened the oven the rest of the way with his foot and pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Until ten minutes ago, the mere thought of food would have sent me reeling, but now, the aroma was enough to make me salivate. He scraped one off the tin and folded the crumbled, melting mess onto a plate, handing me a fork along with it.
“Thanks,” I said, practicing my self-restraint. It was all I could do not to shovel the entire plate into my face.